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84
ILLUSION
My little dog, who loves not solitude,When living friends forsake him, sits and waits
By the tall clock that throbs and palpitates
Whereof the face bears some similitude
To human face, in kind complacent mood.
There waits he patiently; the clock vibrates,
A sympathetic tremor thrills the weights,
It strikes! . . . He feels consoled and understood.
So, and by some such mere automaton
Have I, in lonely moments, been deceived
With hollow outward show and false pretence;
The human-seeming heart went ticking on,
A voice came forth, and I in truth believed
A clock-work thing possess'd both soul and sense.
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